


Kind of the Future

by morelikeassassin



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Implied/Referenced Character Death, Time Travel, no one actually dies onscreen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-13
Updated: 2020-04-13
Packaged: 2021-03-02 01:07:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,368
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23626618
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/morelikeassassin/pseuds/morelikeassassin
Summary: Jonathan Sims decides to see what the world looks like without him.
Relationships: implied Jon/Martin, technically speaking they've just met give them some time
Comments: 12
Kudos: 193





	Kind of the Future

The first sign that Jon’s plan was working was the sunlight. It was thin, cloudy, London sunlight, but it was the second-most beautiful thing he’d seen in his entire life. He let it wash over him along with the sounds of the city. The passing cars and babble of tourists and, god, just the sound of people being happy. The second sign was that he had no idea what day it was. He reached for the information from something beyond himself, but it was like trying to flex wings that he didn’t have. He was blissfully alone in his head. The Eye was gone. As he glanced down at himself, he found that the rest of the fear had gone with it. The scar on his hand rested stubbornly on the surface of his skin and went no deeper. The rest were the same.

The third sign was that he was able to hail a cab from Hilltop Road to Millbank. He didn’t think he could handle being underground just yet, and it gave him an excuse to have a conversation. Any conversation. Yes, he did live in London. From Kilbride, is that so? He’d spent his honeymoon up North (sort of), lovely place. Spectacular cows. He was here on business, actually, since he supposed he didn’t work where he was going anymore. Damned glad to be free of the place. Why, yes, Jon thought so too- a job was really all about the people. The people had always been good.

The Magnus Institute was as squat and imposing as he remembered it. Perhaps it was Jon’s imagination, but it looked smaller than when he’d last seen it. The shadows clung a little closer, shying away from his flimsy sunlight. He could almost hear Tim and Sasha arguing inside, could picture the way they smiled and laughed at each other. Martin would be…

No. No, he couldn’t think about that, that was a sacrifice he had already decided to make. It’s not like Martin would know, anyway.

“Sir?” Rosie’s voice stopped him from heading straight down to the Archives. He pulled to a halt, taking a second to bask in the normalcy of it. “Can I help you?”

“Err, yes,” he stammered, “Hello. I’m- I’m here to see the Archivist?”

“He’s got a visitor right now, but...” Rosie informed him. She glanced down towards the stairwell, and returned her attention to Jon with a sympathetic half-smile. “You’re here for a statement? Why don’t you wait downstairs. I’m sure he’ll be happy to see you.”

It had been too much to hope that Gertrude was still alive. Apparently, it had been too much to hope for Sasha to be her successor, either. Tim, maybe? He’d been marked by the Stranger, something Elias would surely have noticed and took advantage of. He thanked Rosie, and as he made his way downstairs, a very different argument than what he’d been expecting drifted up through the walls.

“...got time for this. I don’t know how to make that any more clear. I don’t care.”

“That’s just what I love about our conversations.”

The doors were closed. All except for his own at the end of the hall. Tentatively, Jon knocked on Tim’s office door. No answer. Then Sasha. Then Martin. Nothing. Even the break room was silent.

“Look, even if I didn’t think you were a waste of my time, I’m already spoken for. What you’re talking about just isn’t possible. Not after what happened.”

“Can you really know that?”

Jon rounded the corner to see Martin sitting at his desk, just in time to hear him let out a laugh that was far too sharp and far too dark.

“Knowing’s what I do,” said Martin Blackwood, the Archivist. “That, and babysitting, since you’re still-”

Martin’s eyes lit up very abruptly, and he leaned around Peter Lukas to look at Jon. “Jonathan! Come in, we were just finishing up.”

There was a moment of vertigo as Jon realized that Martin didn’t actually recognize him. He just Knew him. He felt an uncomfortable pressure at the back of his neck, as though something had grabbed hold of him to keep him from struggling.

Martin’s attention flickered briefly back to Peter, the stark annoyance returning to his voice. “Leave. I’d tell you to come back later, but honestly, don’t.”

“Same time tomorrow, then,” said Peter. He nodded cheerfully at Jon on his way out, and Martin rounded the desk to greet him.

“Here for a statement?” Martin asked eagerly. “Please, sit down, I’ll get you some tea.”

Jon nodded and collapsed faintly into the guest chair. Martin had apparently moved the entire tea station into his office, and opened a storage cabinet in the corner to reveal an electric kettle next to a mismatched selection of boxes and loose paper packets. Without so much as a look backwards, he began making a cup exactly the way Jon liked it, as well as one for himself. He even used Jon's favorite cat mug. Jon wondered if Martin Knew he liked it specifically because it was the one Martin always used to bring him.

“Sorry you had to see that,” Martin said idly. “Office politics, you know. Doesn’t even work here, and he thinks he can waltz right in and give me more stuff to do.”

“I can imagine,” said Jon. “Isn’t there anyone else to help you?”

Martin laughed again, that light little chirp that he reserved for when something was wrong and he didn’t want to talk about it. “Just me. I’ve got some assistants, somewhere, but they’re kept nice and busy.”

He turned to face Jon as he spoke, and the effect was perhaps less reassuring than he’d intended. For the first time in years, Jon was reminded that Martin's demeanor was the only thing stopping him from being intimidating as well as just very big. He looked older than he should have been. Jon had never seen him loom before, but he was proving to be quite good at it. There was a scar across his left jaw, two parallel lines that could have been from claws. His smile was, inexplicably, the same as ever, which almost made the whole picture worse. It was still more beautiful than the sunlight outside. His eyes went startlingly glassy for a moment, and he looked surprised at something.

“Wow. You’ve got quite a story, haven’t you?” he commented.

“I’m much more interested in yours,” said Jon. Martin sighed.

“Of course you are,” he said. “What is it this time... You know, I can't get a clear look at you, that's funny. Are you from the Spiral? You don’t reeeeally strike me as the spidery type.”

“No, I’m- I’m human,” said Jon. “I’m not here for the Archivist, Martin. I came to find you.”

Martin’s smile withered away into an almost childish dissatisfaction. He didn't tense up, or seem particularly more ready to deal with any impending danger. It was with an uneasy sinking feeling that Jon understood this was because his guard had been raised the whole time. Jon had been a threat from the moment he walked in the door. Martin was just sure he could deal with whatever that threat was.

“Cool," he said tersely, "Love it when strangers know who I am. Let's start from the top. Who exactly are you?"

"I'm Jon. Jonathan Sims," Jon answered, his whole being laid out precisely by the question. He could not help but feel a little thrill of joy at not being anything else. "I suppose I’m not anybody. I’m from a different world, one that I, ah… Kind of mucked up. I came here because I thought it would be better off without me."

Martin frowned.

He smiled.

He laughed, and it was as cold and terrible as before.

"Alright," he said. "That’s, um. Total nonsense. First things first-"

Martin turned to retrieve the tea and slid Jon's cup across the table to him. He even gave him a coaster.

"We're going to play a game," Martin said pleasantly. "Here's how it goes: I'm going to pop your head open like an advent calendar, and if I don't like what I find, I get to eat all the little chocolates inside. Now might be a good time to leave if that doesn't sound like a fun game to you."

"And abandon my tea?" Jon said, aghast. Martin lifted his cup, and they clinked glasses. From the look in Martin's eyes, they might as well have been crossing swords.

"Alright then!" said Martin. "Let's have that statement, Mr Jonathan Sims who isn’t anybody. The very first one. About how you worked here."

And with that, the whole world fell away, an excruciating practice in focus and captivity. Jon had expected it to feel like being in a spotlight. Perhaps like performing to a massive, leering audience. This was more personal. This was an exam that he'd spent his whole life studying for and not absorbed a single piece of worthwhile information towards. An essay prompt that he was brimming with words to answer, but could never have enough time to do it justice.

"Well, I was the Archivist," he started, taking a sip of his tea. "I was good at it. Not at first, of course. I wasn't a good anything, at first. I had some assistants who tolerated me. There was Sasha. And Tim. And you. I managed to ruin everything almost immediately, for everyone. I let Sasha die. Didn't even notice when it happened. Then, I brought Tim with me on a dangerous mission, knowing he would die too, which he did. I made your life hell, and the moment things started to change for the better, I left you.

"All while I was ruining people's lives, I continued to be a good Archivist. And an Archivist is only good for one thing. I brought ruin to everything around me one final time. An irrevocable ruin. So deep and terrible that reality shifted in the image of my abject failure. Then, when I could no longer stand to live in that world, I left you one last time. I removed myself - and my failure - from reality. And now, I'm here."

There was a heavy creak as Martin leaned back against his tea cabinet. He had looked calm, almost comfortable until that moment, and Jon remembered the way that statements tended to bottle up your emotions until they were finished if you weren't careful. Martin’s face had gone pale. At what in particular, Jon couldn't begin to guess. He could feel very keenly what Martin had seen - the litany of horrors that Jon had committed against the world, culminating in one final terror that never ceased and had no bounds. He couldn’t know what it meant to Martin, though. There was a haze growing around his memories of the apocalypse, like a nightmare his body was trying to wash away.

"You came back," Martin finished for him.

"I suppose I did," said Jon. "Martin, what happened to everyone?"

"Gone," Martin said faintly. He removed himself from the cabinet and came forward to lean on his chair instead. "They're all… dead, Jon, why did… it's just me. It's been me for so long."

That couldn’t be right. Jon was the reason they died, they should have been just fine without him.

"What about Melanie? Daisy, or Basira?" he insisted, "Or Helen, is Helen still here?"

"Helen’s gone," said Martin, "Died in the accident with Sasha. Michael left after that, too. I wasn’t supposed to be the Archivist, you know? Everyone knew that. Sasha’s the one who took over for Gertrude. After Tim got replaced by that…  _ thing _ , she just… She didn't come back from the circus. I think she knew better. When Elias offered me the job, I thought- I couldn't stop thinking, if I say no, if he gets someone else, am I going to have to watch them die, too?"

"Martin, I'm so sorry," was all Jon could think to say. "I thought I could save them. If I'd just left well enough alone, if I hadn't  _ been _ there, I thought that would be enough. This was my fault, all of it was meant to go away without me. I was just trying to fix what I’d done."

“And what did you do to me, huh?” asked Martin. “You said you killed everyone else.”

“I don’t want to-”

“Tell me what you did,” asked the Archivist.

“I loved you,” said Jon.

Again, he was unraveled for examination. It spared him the messy process of having to examine his feelings, but it meant that Martin was forced to go through it instead. Martin took a deep breath in and out, as though struggling to press back some reaction. Whatever he’d been through in Jon’s absence, it let him keep his expressions startlingly neutral. 

“And what do you mean to do now?” he pressed.

“I suppose I’ll still love you,” said Jon. “And hope that that’s enough.”

Martin got very quiet. He started to say something, and stopped short. Thought of something better to say, then decided against that one as well. Jon momentarily wished that he could get inside his head one last time.

“What else do you do?” he finally asked.

“Mostly, I make extremely reckless decisions,” Jon admitted.

Martin considered this.

“I can work with that,” he decided, “You’re kind of from the future, right?”

“That’s not-” 

“What can you tell me about the Fears?” Martin cut him off. There was a gleam in his eye that Jon recognized as the first inkling of a plan. It made Jon’s heart melt.

“Um, right. So, you’ve got Smirke’s fourteen, that’s obvious.”

“Obviously.”

“Did you talk to Leitner?”

Martin rolled his eyes. “Ugh. I haven’t seen him since he cleared out that Hunter last year. He still won’t come out of the tunnels, he’s convinced Elias is going to lop his head off.”

“He’s alive?” Jon exclaimed.

“I mean, I guess,” said Martin, not sounding too worried. “Seemed like he had things sorted.”

“He wasn’t far off the mark about Elias,” Jon said nervously.

“Yeeeah, I wouldn’t worry about that,” said Martin. “I keep him locked in a storage closet.”

This was so far outside the realm of Jon’s imagination that he actually took a moment to picture it. It was a pleasant moment.

“...and that works?” he asked.

“Sort of,” Martin shrugged. “I throw him an evil artifact once and a while to keep him busy. Took him ages to get out of that haunted coffin thing.”

“God, you’re amazing,” Jon muttered under his breath, “Err, what about Gerry?”

“How d’you think I got this?” said Martin, tracing a knuckle over the claw mark that tugged at his smug little half-smile.

Jon got the distinct feeling that they were competing at something. More importantly, Martin seemed to be winning. The tea was abandoned, pouring the last of its warmth uselessly into the air. There was a tension between them that Jon hadn’t felt since the first time they’d met. The rules for that interaction were impersonal, neutral and only tenuously agreed-upon, full of boundaries that needed pushing and limits to test. Technically speaking, they were meeting for the first time again, which meant that the same rules applied here. That memory forced a realization into Jon’s head with all the grace and delicacy of a burning freight train.

Martin wasn’t trying to beat him at anything. He was trying to impress him.

“C’mon, future guy,” said Martin, with an impatience that was clearly feigned. “Give me something useful.”

“You never mentioned what happened to Melanie,” Jon shot back.

“Melanie King,” Martin mulled over, “She came in with a statement, then she dragged Sasha off to India looking for ghosts. Sasha came back with a bullet hole in her back. Melanie joined a podcast.”

“Thank god,” Jon breathed a sigh of relief.

“Um, no?” said Martin, eyes wide. “Sasha got shot.”

“No, but- But Melanie’s fine,” Jon explained. “Honestly, I’ll take what I can get, at this point.”

Martin smirked. “Keep going.”

“Daisy and Basira.”

“They are a pair of law officers,” Martin said contemplatively, drawing the information from thin air. Jon noticed that he tilted his head up slightly whenever he Beheld something, craning his neck to get a better look. He wondered if he’d had any sort of tells like that. Martin could probably tell him. “One of whom just got probation for murdering someone. Again. Is that supposed to mean something?”

“I suppose not,” said Jon, “And you know about the rituals?”

“No, Jon, I don’t know about the rituals I’ve lost most of my friends to trying to stop in the past year,” said Martin.

“Do you know they don’t work?”

This gave Martin pause.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” he asked suspiciously.

“I mean, they don’t work,” Jon repeated. “The rituals are doomed to fail. It’s impossible to bring any one fear into the world on its own.”

“Which means that… I haven’t lost everyone trying to stop the end of the world.” Martin’s voice had started to shake. “I’ve lost everyone for… absolutely nothing.”

“There’s something else,” Jon said sharply. This was a crisis that did need dealing with, but not here or now. “One of them does work, one that you’re in a uniquely good position to stop. Your own.”

Martin pulled out the meaning of this remarkably quickly. That, or he just pulled the answer from Jon’s head. “The Archivist is a ritual,” he proposed.

“Exactly,” said Jon. “Your role is to collect the fears. All of them. They can’t be brought in one at a time, but all at once is a different matter.”

“So, no Archivist, no ritual?” Martin said quietly.

“No!” Jon cried, “That’s what I tried to do. Didn’t exactly work out. I think there’s always an Archivist. All we can do is postpone it. Gertrude did the best she could, but she didn’t tell anyone who could have carried on for her.”

“And then she died,” said Martin.

“Yes, but she also lived,” said Jon. “Right now, I think that’s the best possible thing you can do.”

“Let’s- Let me just unpack this, so you know how insane this sounds,” said Martin. “This guy I’ve never met before - who apparently loves me literally more than sunlight, don’t think I didn’t catch that - waltzes in and tells me that the solution to all my problems is just living my best life.”

Jon smiled, finally breaking the tension to take a sip of tea. “In all fairness, the sun does rather pale in comparison to you.”

Martin laughed again. This time it had just a hint of the warmth that Jon longed to see in him.

“Well. You promised you’d find me when you came back,” said Martin. “How’s that working out for you?”

Jon nearly choked on his drink. He had in fact been trying not to think about the last time he’d seen the other Martin - his Martin, who stood through the end of the world with him. He’d been trying to think of everything except the last words they’d said to each other, the last time they’d touched, the last time they would see each other again.

“You remember?” he spluttered.

“I know,” Martin corrected him, although he seemed unsure himself. “That’s different from remembering. It didn’t happen to me. It happened to someone else, who was me, who… And, and I don’t… I mean, I could. Couldn’t I?”

“Martin, I can’t read minds anymore,” Jon reminded him.

“I don’t love you,” Martin insisted. This seemed to distress him more than anything he’d pulled from Jon’s mind. “Not like he did. I don’t know how. You came all this way, and I’ve got no idea how to be the person you came looking for.”

“I know,” Jon said warmly. “I didn’t come here expecting you to. I came back to keep my promise. And I came back to help however I could.”

Martin nodded. “D’you think we could start with that whole ‘living’ thing?”

“I can’t say I’m the best at it," said Jon, "But for you, I’ll try.”


End file.
